Say Hello to Your Congressmen
by littlemisspotential
Summary: West Wing/Babysitters Club crossover. Dawn Schafer has come to the White House to work as a journalist. She works with CJ, tries to interfere in meetings with Josh and Toby, and even finds a nemesis in one of her old club members. Rated T because I have no idea what I'm doing and don't want to offend anyone in the process.
1. Chapter 1

Dawn Schafer was early.

This was not something she could often boast; Dawn was a very leisurely, laid-back person accustomed to operating on a West Coast schedule. She wasn't used to pencil skirts and high heels, suit jackets and panty hose, nor was she used to the (barely) prescription glasses Claudia had insisted made her look more sophisticated. They had worked spectacularly, though; despite her natural bronze glow and long, sun-bleached waves of hair, one would never guess that she had walked off a plane from Sacramento in Chacos mere days ago.

She blinked and adjusted the glasses on her face, focusing on her surroundings. The press briefing room was empty except for a lone female reporter with a mess of brown hair hunched over in her seat, muttering to herself and writing so intently her nose was nearly pressed to the paper. Her back was to Dawn, who was standing against the far wall, and Dawn wondered what she could possibly be writing about minutes before the press briefing, though she didn't dare interrupt to ask. The woman's phone went off and she snapped it from her belt loop irritably, barely glancing at it before dropping it in her lap and muttering a stream of what sounded very much like profanity.

Dawn silently vowed never to become this woman.

Other journalists began to trickle in, and Dawn was made increasingly aware of how awkward it was of her to be standing silently at the back wall near the doorway. She strode over to the nearby table and poured herself a cup of coffee, throwing in cream and sugar at random and trying to look like she knew what she was doing.

"Dawn Schafer? They told me you didn't drink coffee." Dawn looked up to see a light-skinned black woman smiling at her. She straightened up.

"Not usually, no. But I'm not usually up this early, either. It's three in the morning in California." She took the first sip of coffee of her life and grimaced. The sugar was sickly sweet and she could taste the fat from the cream, thick and-dear God, what was _in_ this? She set her cup down on the table. "I'm sorry, you are-"

"Sandra Gonzalez, _Washington Post_. You're one from the _Bee?_"

"The only one, so far as I know," Dawn smiled. The _Sacramento Bee_ had certainly earned accreditation from its five Pulitzer Prizes, but had never had a representative in the White House. She shook hands with Sandra. "How long have you been working with the _Post?_"

"Twelve years now, nine of them spent trying to work my way here," Sandra chuckled. She continued to talk, about what CJ Cregg had discussed on her first day, and what CJ was going to discuss today, and Dawn was taken aback by how informed she seemed. She certainly had done her research on Dawn. Sandra had read all of her articles for the _Bee,_ knew she had received her college education from Stanford, acknowledged her past volunteer work for PETA, and was familiar with her stances on most major political issues. Despite this intimidating, and potentially disturbing, factor, Sandra was very easy to talk to, and Dawn quickly decided she was a good friend to have in the White House. She even reminded her a little of her high school friend Jessi, who was also very nice and, for lack of a better word, black.

"You're not got going to want to sit there," Sandra said after ten minutes, when Dawn excused herself to find a seat, "That spot belongs to _The Times. _CJ will call you out on it; she's done it before." Dawn stood up.

"She cares that much about the seating arrangement?" she joked.

"She cares about her loyalty to the big publications, " Sandra replied seriously. "Here," she scanned the room, "You'll probably want to take that seat over there." Dawn followed her gaze to an empty seat behind the reporter that Dawn had noticed earlier, who was still muttering to herself, though no longer writing. "Take the seat behind Pike."

Pike? Dawn sat down slowly, staring at the mass of red frizzy hair in front of her.

"Mallory?"

Mallory turned at the sound of her name. "Dawn?" Her eyes widened. She was wearing the same style of glasses she had when they were kids, round thick ones that almost took up the whole of her small face. She looked tired, there was ink smudged on the bottom of her cheek. Her hair really was quite untamed, making her already small build look even smaller in comparison to its vastness, and Dawn couldn't help but notice that, save the braces, Mallory really hadn't changed at all since the eighth grade.

"Wow, Mal, you look the same as I remember! How have you been?" Mallory stiffened; she had always been self-conscious about her appearance.

"Ah, no, I'm, uh, I've been good." She appraised Dawn without actually looking her in the eye. "You look-golden." The last word was spoken with obvious distaste and this wasn't lost on Dawn. She adjusted her glasses uncomfortably. Was this the same sweet Mallory she had left behind in Stoneybrook?

"So, uh, you're a journalist," she offered lamely, to break the deafening silence.

"Clearly."

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised." Dawn laughed, "We always knew you'd be a writer of some sort." Mallory's smile didn't reach her eyes.

"I can't really say the same about you."

Dawn noticed the tone of the conversation was escalating and was careful to keep her voice light and friendly. "What do you mean by that?" Mallory shrugged.

"Just that you've been trying out a lot of careers lately, from what I've heard. Non-profits. Activism." Her eyes finally met Dawn's and she smiled. "I guess I shouldn't ask why you're here, but how long you're staying."

Dawn stared. What had come over Mallory? She tried to think of any instance in the past where she had wronged or hurt Mal, but none came to mind. But even if she had, it would have been years ago. She hadn't seen Mallory since she was fourteen years old, for God's sake; what kind of person held a middle-school grudge? She was arranging a diplomatic response to this unforeseen hostility when the door in the front of the room banged open and CJ Cregg strode into the room, followed by a handful of her staff. Mallory hastily turned around.

The cameras flashed as CJ purposefully approached her podium, looking as if she hadn't sat still for a moment since she got out of bed that morning. Any malicious thought in Dawn's head dissolved immediately as she took in the powerful aura of CJ Cregg behind her podium. She really was as tall as everyone said-at least six feet-but oddly graceful, presiding over the press room with the utmost sense of knowledge and public responsibility.

"Good morning, everyone," CJ said briskly, but not without warmth, " As we speak, the senior council is meeting with several Republican congressmen to discuss President Bartlet's plan to increase tax incentives on cigarette purchases from 3 percent to 7 percent. The tax was not included in last spring's Federal Budget, and the President would like the issue put back on the table." A brunette woman with a round face in a pastel pink business suit handed CJ a note. "I've just been informed that last night at 10:43 p.m., the President received a phone call from Syrian President Bashar Assad. President Assad confirmed that the alleged bombing of Syrian weapon centers on Thursday was a rumor and that he has no reason to believe that Israeli terrorists are plotting any attack of the sort."

"CJ!" the cry was instantaneous. Hands shot in the air, cameras flashed, and CJ Cregg inhaled for the first time since she had begun the briefing.

"Sandra," she pointed.

"CJ, does President Bartlett plan to publicly support Syria should Israeli terrorists prove to be a threat?"

"The Syrian President has indicated that the Israeli terrorists are not a threat, and the White House doesn't respond to the hypothetical. David." The man whose chair Dawn had tried to sit in spoke.

"CJ, is it wise for the U.S. to continue trade with both Syria and the Israelis while there is a threat to foreign security?"

"Threat to foreign security?" CJ said, incredulous at the question's strong wording. "We have no reason to believe that the bombing actually occurred, or, if it did, that Israeli terrorists were behind it. In fact, we have every reason _not _to believe it." The cry for the press secretary's attention surged again, and Dawn watched CJ continue to answer questions with a flawlessness that could only be accomplished by a public relations demigod. She showed no sign of weakness, left no response open-ended, and Dawn was captivated. So captivated, in fact, that the room was on its fourth question before she realized that she hadn't been writing anything down. She started and leaned forward to scrawl in her notebook.

"CJ!" Dawn looked up as Mallory's hand shot in the air. "Can we trust President Assad when he makes these claims, given past events when he has lied to President Bartlett about foreign threat?" CJ frowned.

"That's not quite how I remember it, Mallory, you'll want to check your history on that one." CJ's gaze turned back towards the room, ready for her next question, when Mallory spoke again.

"CJ, you cannot deny that President Assad's judgement has been faulty in the past when it comes to foreign security detail. Do you find it strange that President Bartlett-"

"I find it strange" CJ cut in, irritated, "to be told what I can and cannot deny about security detail." She inhaled again. "Yeah, Danny." Dawn looked over the notes she had prepared for the briefing, and discovered an entire page on ethanol subsidies-a topic no one had breached. She looked around, unsure. Should she ask about it? She couldn't be the only one with this information. She fingered the ID badge she wore on a lanyard around her neck and glanced at Mallory who was still seething from the reprimand she had received.

"CJ!" Dawn called loudly, taking off her glasses and tucking them into her breast pocket. The press secretary met her gaze. "CJ, I have from two sources that President Bartlet is meeting with Republican leadership today to negotiate a change in ethanol subsidies for farmers in Iowa. Can you confirm?" CJ hesitated at the abrupt change of subject.

"You're the new one from the _Sacramento Bee_?"

"The only one." The room laughed and CJ smiled.

"Welcome to the White House." She shook her head, "No, ethanol subsidies haven't been a topic of discussion for quite some time. The tax breaks expired last year."

"Yes, but my sources say that Republican leadership is looking to revisit the plan in an effort to work towards environmental protection."

"Republicans, working toward environmental protection? That doesn't sound like them." The room laughed and so did CJ, nodding at the dark-haired woman who had given her the note. The woman walked quickly across the room to Dawn as the press clamored for CJ again.

"CJ would like you to come with her after the briefing," she said. Dawn, startled, nodded. She closed her notebook and started to put her bag together, as Mallory hissed her disapproval.

"She only picked you because she's mad at Danny Concannon."

"What?" Mallory rolled her eyes.

"Danny Concannon? Writer for _The Post_? He won the Pulitzer last year, he's very skilled... though sleeping with the press secretary couldn't have hurt." she added nastily, almost to herself. "That's one step to stardom I hope you're willing to take." Dawn knew the remark was sarcastic and she was surprised to find that her heart rate increased. She busied herself with her bag.

This did not escape Mallory. "Oh wow," she said softly. "I'd heard you were living with Claudia, but I never thought...of all people..."

Dawn was taken aback. "I don't know what that has to do with anything," she stammered, flustered completely. "I...you...I'll see you later." She cursed herself for not having anything more to say in her defense and hurried across the room to stand by CJ's dark-haired assistant.

She shifted her weight in agitation. Sure, twenty-seven was probably too old to still live with a girl you used to babysit with when you were thirteen. But Claudia Kishi was a great roommate. Sure she had some clingy habits, like preparing candlelit dinners and texting Dawn six times a day, but she was always playing really awesome music and decorating the apartment, and she always came home with hilarious stories from the elementary school art class she taught. Neither of them made enough money to afford a single apartment in D.C. and they had fun together, damn it. Who was Mallory, with her still-frizzy hair and pretentious personality to say anything about anybody? Dawn doubted that anyone in the club had even spoken to her since graduation, except for Jessi and maybe Abby. But even less people in the club spoke to Abby.

"That's a lid, folks." CJ closed her notebook and the room chirped its thanks. CJ smiled as she watched the reporters shuffle out of the room; the love for her job was unmistakable. Dawn's heart raced as she watched her get her papers together and step down from the podium. How did one start off a conversation with CJ Cregg? She willed herself to calm down and straightened her posture as CJ walked toward her.

"Miss Schafer," CJ nodded, and, without stopping, strode out the door. What? Dawn looked at the assistant, who indicated that she should follow. She complied.

"It's Dawn," she said at CJ's back.

"Welcome to the West Wing, Dawn. Have you had the tour?" Dawn picked up her pace so that she was just behind CJ's right shoulder.

"No, I flew in from California about two weeks ago. This is my first time to D.C." CJ looked at her over her shoulder.

"No kidding? Any different from Sacramento?" CJ turned left and Dawn continued straight. She doubled-back.

"Things move a lot faster here." CJ laughed good-naturedly.

"I'm sure they do." They entered an open room with cubicles. "Here's where the White House press works. You'll generally come in from that door over there. Toby Ziegler's office, Josh Lyman's. Don't talk to them; they rarely have anything of interest to you that they can actually discuss. Plus they tend to be cranky."

"DONNA!" someone bellowed from inside an office. Dawn jumped and looked around; no one else had so much as blinked. A blonde woman (Donna, presumably) stood up from her cubicle and opened the door to the office.

"...informal briefing first thing in the morning," CJ was saying, "just to go over anything we might have missed from the night before. Other than that, stay out of my office unless you clear it with Carol."

"Right," agreed Dawn. Who the hell was Carol? They arrived at an office on the left corner of the room and CJ marched swiftly behind her desk, dropping her notebook on the couch against the side wall as she passed it. She remained standing, searching through the papers on her desk.

"...tax increase, Syria, secret service," she mumbled to herself, opening a file and almost immediately closing it. "You'd think I'd have something on it somewhere." She moved an entire stack of files to her chair and leafed through the remaining stray sheets of paper. She picked up a yellow note and frowned. "CAROL," she called, and the dark-haired woman from the press room appeared at the doorway. Ah, thought Dawn, Carol.

"Carol, what is this?" CJ held up the piece of paper and peered at Carol over her glasses.

"That's a message from Ben."

"I can see that. Why is it on my desk?"

"He's called twice this morning."

"It's seven-thirty."

"He said he's calling again at ten." CJ straightened up and stared at her assistant.

"Well, call him back and tell him to stop calling," she said, "Remind him that this is the White House, not a...," CJ gestured emptily, searched for words, "...dating hotline." Carol looked like she was trying to suppress a smile.

"You want me to tell him that?" CJ sighed.

"Tell him I'll call him on my way home today."

"Are you actually going to call him on your way home today?"

"Maybe. If the restraining order hasn't come through by then. Also, get Leo and ask him if there's something he neglected to tell me this morning. Something about ethanol and Republicans and the president." Carol nodded and left. "Make sure you call Ben before ten," CJ called after her, "I'll give you a raise for every time you mention the words 'restraining order.'" She turned her attention back to her desk.

"You have a stalker?" Dawn asked, still lingering near the doorway.

"Ex-boyfriend," she said distractedly, skimming through a four-page packet. She crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash. "Have to admire his persistence, I suppose." She gestured that Dawn should sit down, and Dawn complied.

"Is he looking to get a Pulitzer?" she joked. CJ looked up at her over her glasses.

"Ben?"

"The joke in the newsroom is that people you sleep with end up with Pulitzers." CJ gave a half-smile.

"I've heard worse things about me in the newsroom," she said. "It's a more fascinating statistic that people who sleep with me end up dead." CJ had either found what she was looking for or had given up. She took off her jacket and hung it on the coatrack, and placed a thin notebook from the top of her desk into a drawer. She moved the stack of files in her office chair back to their place on the far corner of her desk, and sat down, transferring a small stack of papers to the cabinet to her left. She opened yet another notebook, took out a pen, and for the first time since the briefing, looked Dawn directly in the eye. Dawn noted that this was the second time she had ever seen CJ Cregg remain still for more than ten seconds.

"So, Dawn," said CJ, a slight smile tugging at her lips, "tell me about ethanol."


	2. Chapter 2

Six months later, Dawn was still in CJ's office, this time for lunch. The setting was much more relaxed than the first time she had been here; CJ was sitting on the couch, her long legs stretched out, and she was laughing. Dawn sat across from her, wearing a plain blue Oxford button-down and a simple black skirt. The stiletto heels of her first week had been replaced with a pair of reasonable black flats, and she had abandoned the fake glasses completely. Boxes of Chinese takeout were scattered across the table between her and CJ, and Dawn leaned forward to grab a carton of vegetable lo mien.

"You mean to tell me," she said to a still laughing CJ, "that there is_ no possible way_ Zooey Bartlet was escorted from a bar by D.C. police last night?

"For public nudity? Zooey Bartlet wouldn't wear a bikini to the beach on the Bartlets' last vacation." Dawn shrugged and twirled a noodle around her chopstick.

"All I'm saying is that a Georgetown student by the name of Zooey Bartlet is going to show up in this week's police blotter." CJ grinned.

"The President is going to love that." There was a knock on the door and Will Bailey stuck his head in the door.

"Am I interrupting?" CJ waved him in.

"We were just about to speculate the President's reaction when he reads his daughter's name in the police blotter tomorrow morning." Will stared.

"Which daughter?"

"A Georgetown student by the name of Zooey Bartlet was apparently escorted from a D.C. bar last night for public nudity." The amusement in CJ's voice was thinly disguised, and Will searched her face.

"And this does not concern us because..."

"It's not our Zooey Bartlet."

"Says the press secretary to the journalist," Dawn smirked. CJ nudged her playfully with her foot. Will still seemed concerned.

"Seriously," he said to CJ, "Is this something we need to bring to Leo?" He glanced at Dawn. "Off the record." Dawn ate another mouthful of lo mein.

"I'm offended, Will," she said in a tone that said exactly the opposite, "One day you'll learn to trust me."

"Trusting you is my job," CJ said, taking her legs off the couch and sitting up so she could grab a carton of chicken. "No, it doesn't need to go to Leo. I'll have Carol call Zooey; it's handled."

"Okay," Will dropped the subject and held up a piece of paper to CJ. "I saw that there's a meeting with a Janney Elementary art teacher on Josh's schedule. Do you know anything about this?" Dawn concentrated very hard on her chopsticks.

"I would say so," CJ nodded, "I put it there." Will looked confused.

"You put it there."

"That is what I just said, yes."

"Why did you put it there?"

"Because I think it's good to hear from the public." CJ's voice was laced with passion and indignation. "Because we just passed a bill cutting art programs from 500 schools nationwide, and I think maybe we owe it to a teacher or two to meet with them to discuss why." She shrugged. " And it's a personal favor." Will looked at her with a mixture of suspicion and amusement.

"A personal favor? You're doing-" he glanced at the paper, "-Claudia Kishi a personal favor?" Dawn chased a carrot around the lo mien carton in her hand and tried not to smile. CJ blinked several times in rapid succession.

"She has connections. I happen to be one of them. Why do you ask?" Will considered questioning her further, looked at the reproachful expression on CJ's face, and decided against it.

"I saw it on the schedule and thought I could get someone in the meeting. We're gearing up for the campaign trail, which means New Hampshire and teachers unions and it'd be nice if we actually had something to say about education. If I could just get a representative for Russell in there, see to it that someone snaps a picture..." CJ popped a piece of chicken in her mouth.

"Sounds like you need to talk to Josh," she said, "You can forget the photographer, though. Makes it seem like Russell has the President's support if his people are sitting in on meetings with the White House senior staff." Will nodded, already formulating a pitch.

"Yeah, okay. I'll talk to Josh." CJ put her feet back up on the couch.

"Probably for the best," she gave Will a crooked smile, "you're not very photogenic." Will gave a snort of laughter.

"True. I'm slammed for the day anyway; I'd probably send in Mallory." CJ chewed.

"Leo's Mallory?"

"Mallory Pike. Used to work for the _Chicago Tribune_. We hired her as Deputy Communications Director to the Vice President." Dawn and CJ choked in unison.

"Isn't she a little... obnoxious?" said CJ incredulously.

"And close-minded," Dawn added.

"I thought she was fired." CJ turned to Dawn. "Didn't you tell me she was fired?"

"I-I thought she was! I mean, I didn't think to look into it. It was hardly a surprise; she was a highly subjective reporter, completely unqualified..."

"And _obnoxious..."_

"...Deputy Communications Director?"

"Was it blackmail?"

The whimsical speculation between the two women had occurred so quickly in such a serious tone that Will was taken aback. He raised his eyebrows.

"While that character analysis was," he hesitated, "admittedly accurate, Mallory may not possess great qualities for a journalist, but she's an ideal speechwriter."

"So, to be clear," said CJ, pointing her fork at Will and swallowing, "'obnoxious' _is_ something written in the contract for you people?" She returned to her chicken. "Well, that's fifty bucks I owe Kate Harper." Will smiled.

"I'm going to see Josh now." Will took his right hand from the door frame, but hesitated from removing his left from the handle. "You want me to leave it open?" he asked CJ. The press secretary glanced at Dawn, who had just sat back and crossed her legs. Dawn was shaking her head to herself, causing her long blonde hair to drape sensually across the neckline of her shirt, which lay more open than CJ had noticed...

"Go ahead and close it," she said with a nonchalance that didn't fool Will. He nodded and complied, careful to conceal his smirk until his back was completely turned and a solid oak door stood between him and the goings-on in the office of CJ Cregg.

* * *

Margaret rounded the corner, reading the first of two files in her hand. The two folders were identical in content, though neither made an ounce of sense to her. It didn't help that she never had the time to actually sit down and read the damn things; being secretary to the White House Chief of Staff didn't exactly exude free time. No, instead, she had to depend on the few minutes she spent delivering the documents to sneak a peek. She flipped to page three while turning another corner, and scanned the page quickly, searching for words or key phases she understood. The words "nuclear reactor" jumped out at her from paragraph four, but to her dismay the succeeding sentence-and succeeding two paragraphs for that matter-might as well have been written in Latin.

Margaret looked up from what she thought was an unnecessarily convoluted sentence about "inevitable consequences" to discover that she was nowhere near the part of the building she intended to be. She found this very strange. Turning, she took a shortcut through the media cubicles, noticing that Dawn Schafer's chair was empty. Margaret glanced at CJ's office down the hall, but the door was closed and there was no way of telling if Dawn was in the room. Margaret would bet her favorite paperweight that she was.

She was approaching Toby's office and saw Donna making copies from a rather boring looking book-probably due to an oddball request from Josh Lyman. She quickly closed the file and extended it to Donna once she was close enough.

"Leo needs to see Josh in fifteen minutes," she said. Donna looked up and accepted the file. She smiled.

"Okay." She returned to the copying, but Margaret didn't leave.

"It's about foreign relations," she said, her eyes wide. "Probably something important." Donna just smiled again.

"Isn't it all?" Margaret stared at Donna expectantly, and when Donna merely stared blankly back, she turned so that the two were standing side-by-side. She opened the folder in Donna's hands to a pre-published opinion article and ran her finger hurriedly to a line in the sixth paragraph.

"See I was looking at this, and it says '_...President Bartlet is not in a position to deny this country the right to justice...'_ Do you think that means the nation thinks we should declare war?" She looked up from the paper, straight-faced and wide-eyed at Donna, who gently took the folder out of Margaret's hand and closed it.

"I'll be sure Josh gets it," she said pointedly, heading towards his office. "Thanks." Margaret nodded. Right. She continued the walk to Toby's office. The door was half-open and Margaret raised her hand to knock on the door when she noticed that Toby was not alone. Siting in the chair across from him was a beautiful woman, Japanese-American by the looks of it, with dark silky hair that was pin-straight and reached almost to her mid-back. But the normality of the woman stopped there. She was wearing a shin-length skirt, hot pink with large black polka dots placed at random. You could just see the bottom of a bright green shirt under a navy blue blazer that was thin and fitted perfectly to her slim figure. The woman gestured, shifting the cuff of her sleeve, and Margaret noticed that the inside of the blazer was lined with black and white checkered fabric. The only thing remotely matching were her navy blue flats, which looked remarkably unremarkable compared to the rest of her get-up. Margaret stared at the girl. The outfit was by no means revealing and certainly couldn't have been mistaken for fashion by even Toby Ziegler's standards, but Margaret did not think she had seen anyone look better in anything.

The woman was in animated conversation with Toby, who looked quite taken aback for a man unaccustomed to facial expression.

"The budget for art at Janney Elementary has been cut down by half," she was telling Toby. "And according to the the Bartlet education plan, it will be cut an additional 3% every year. By 2018, art will be cut completely."

"2027," said Toby. "By which time the economy will have rebounded. We have an exit strategy for this; there's a clause-

"Data shows that middle school is the hardest time in every child's life-"

"What data?" Toby cut in. The woman ignored him.

"-and getting rid of ways for misunderstood kids to express themselves is not the answer. When I was in middle school, all I _did_ was paint. My best friend moved away and everyone else in my little group seemed to just pair off, you know? You know how friends do." She paused, as if waiting for Toby to agree. He brought his hand to his mouth, whether to suppress a smile or a scream, Margaret didn't know. "It just doesn't make sense to cut art programs," she continued, "I mean, I was a terrible student, but I was smart, and look at me now!" Toby raised his eyebrows. "All because of art!" She beamed at Toby, who had never had such a bizarre conversation in his life. He leaned back in his chair, took the hand from in front of his mouth, and gestured to no one in particular.

"Where do you get the money for these art programs? You have art, you have to have music. And dance. And theater. How is the government expected to fund that when we're 27th in math and science, 6th in literacy. We're falling behind on a global scale; this is not the time to be expanding art and music programs. " Toby had the unique ability of raising his voice in annoyance and sounding amused at the same time, all without changing his expression. This was lost on the woman, however, who had spotted a bowl of M&Ms on the desk.

"Are these for anyone?" she asked and, without waiting for an answer, grabbed a handful. She tilted her head back and funneled three or four M&Ms in her mouth and Toby sat up, defeat in his eyes.

"Isn't there someone else besides me you could run this by?" he said, desperately, searching the office through the glass, "someone like...Jack Sosa." One of CJ's assistants had passed by. "Jack is, uh, in the communication department and..." The girl turned around.

"Oh, the black one?" she turned back to Toby, "I met him; he's very nice. He reminds me of my friend Jessi from high school." Toby rubbed a hand against his temple.

"Jessi was a suck-up?" He said dryly, staring at his desk.

"Nope!" she said brightly, and Margaret snapped out of her trance and knocked on the door. She opened it fully and Toby looked more excited to see her than he had in the past six years combined.

"Leo needs to see you in his office," she said.

"Yeah." Toby stood up and moved around from his desk. "Would you excuse me?" His eyes darted everywhere around the room but at the woman, who didn't take the hint and remained seated.

"Of course!" Toby stared at her for a few seconds.

"Okay." He walked out of the office, dragging Margaret with him. "You have to do something with her," he said, taking the folder from her. Margaret nodded seriously.

"What would you suggest?"

"Get rid of her!" Toby's voice was elevated with exasperation.

"She has a meeting with Josh at three."

"So give her to Josh."

"Josh is in Leo's office." Toby rubbed his hand against his temple.

"I don't know, I don't care, just-I need to see Leo. Take care of it?" He strode off and Margaret stared after him. Take care of it. Right. She turned back to Toby's office and walked in. The Asian woman turned her head, her black hair rippling under the fluorescent light. She smiled at Margaret.

"Hi!" she said brightly, standing up and extending her hand, "I'm Claudia Kishi."


End file.
